


and don't let go

by defcontwo



Series: the epikegster remix [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 12:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7104127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Did you miss me at all?" </p><p>Or: what happens when a pair of dumbasses use their words a little better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and don't let go

Kent stays. 

He plays flip cup with Lardo, and wins one out of three games. She's small and sharp, and Kent'll admit that he still doesn't see the appeal to a lot of this whole college thing, but he likes her. 

He beats a bunch of lax bros at quarters, and he flirts harmlessly with a cute boy in a muscle tank with a tattoo wrapped around his bicep, until Jack leans over and murmurs, "he's a freshman, Kenny," and Kent nearly spits out his drink. 

And through it all, he watches Jack. 

Jack, who nurses one beer the whole night. Jack, who smiles with a hell of a lot more ease than he used to. Jack, who gets worked up arguing with some girl about the role of sports during World War II, and lets some kid named Chowder talk his ear off about Patty Marleau for a good half hour. 

There's an ache forming in Kent's chest, and he reaches up one hand to rub at it, but it doesn't do any good. It's not a hurt that he can fix with some Tylenol and a good night's sleep. He throws back the rest of his beer, and sets his solo cup down. 

Jack's gonna sign with the Falconers. Maybe he doesn't know it himself, yet, and maybe he hasn't said the words out loud, but Kent's not blind. If it's not going to be Boston, and it couldn't be, not for a son of Montreal, then Jack will take the next closest thing. 

Shit. 

"Hey, uh," Kent says, bending down across the edge of the couch to whisper into Jack's ear. "It's late, I should get going." 

Jack raises his head. "Hold up, I'll drive you." 

"It's cool, I've got it," Kent says. 

Jack just raises an eyebrow. "And how much tub juice have you had? Seriously, it's fine, Kenny. I'll crash on your floor, take a cab back in the morning." 

Kent stares for a beat. He has no idea what Jack's thinking, here. "You don't still snore, do you?" 

Shitty snorts into his cup. "Like a foghorn, buddy. I can hear him from the next room." 

"At least I don't sleep naked," Jack mutters, and Shitty reaches over, presses a sloppy kiss to Jack's cheek. Kent swallows hard, and tries to calculate how quickly he can leave this house. 

"So, uh, Zimms....." 

"Yeah, let's get going," Jack says, hopping up from the couch. "You got everything?" 

Kent pulls out the keys to his very expensive, very fast rental car, and tosses them at Jack to catch. "All set." 

. 

It's quiet, in the car. The highway stretches out before them, lit by distant orange lighting, and still a little slick from last night's rain. Kent leans his head against the window, drums his fingers against his lap. 

Jack flicks on the turn signal, and changes lanes. They're the only car on the road at this hour; typical Jack. Obeying the speed limit and everything. 

"Everything okay?" Jack asks, voice quiet and even, and Kent still doesn't get it. Still doesn't know what the game is, here, because Jack was pretty clear earlier about what he can and cannot do, and going home with Kent seems to fall pretty firmly under the "No" category. 

"That small one, the figure skater?" Kent says, abruptly. 

"Bittle?" Jack says, and Kent tries not to hear the way Jack's voice warms. 

Kent sighs. "He's got a massive fucking crush on you, you know." 

Jack fiddles with the radio dial until he comes across a country station, and Johnny Cash starts playing softly from every speaker. 

"He does?" 

"Yeah," Kent says. "Like, can see that shit from space, it's so large." 

"Huh," Jack says, "I didn't realize." 

And the hell of it is, Kent believes it. That's exactly the kind of thing Jack would miss, short of getting shoved into a locker and kissed stupid by his liney. 

"You want to do anything about it?" Kent asks. He kind of guesses that the answer might be yes. 

"He's a good friend," Jack says. "I don't know, I. It's complicated. I hadn't really thought about it." 

Kent huffs, and Jack gives him a look. "I know. Kind of the motto of the night, eh?" 

Kent grimaces, but doesn't say anything. 

"I don't know what you want from me, Kenny," Jack says. "I'm here, aren't I?" 

"I could've Ubered," Kent mutters, crossing both arms over his chest. The sullenness has really started to set in, and Kent's not feeling gracious enough to even so much as try to shake it off. 

"Parse," Jack says, "I thought we were trying not to fight tonight." 

Kent switches off the radio, and sinks back into his seat. "I fucking hate country." 

"Parse -- " 

"Did you miss me at all?" Kent says, and it's the thing he's always wanted to know, the text that he's almost sent at least half a dozen times, usually in the dead of the night, after he's gotten home drunk from a party. 

Kent rubs tiredly at one eye. Christ. He had too much to drink. He always wants to say stupid shit to Jack when he's drunk. "It's always me, is all. I'm always the one who.....Jesus Christ, Zimms, why does this always have to be my job?" 

"I text you sometimes," Jack says. 

Kent rolls his eyes. "Once a year on my birthday doesn't count, Jack." 

Jack pulls into the parking lot of Kent's hotel, and slides into a parking place. Cuts the engine, leans back in his seat. "No, I guess it doesn't." 

Kent unbuckles his seatbelt, but doesn't move.

"I didn't know how to get better, and still get to keep you," Jack says, and God. Kent inhales sharply, feeling like he's been kicked in the gut. "That's not -- I didn't mean that how it sounds -- " 

"Then how did you mean it, Jack?"

Kent's got one hand on the car handle, ready to flee at any minute. Doesn't care what happens to his rental, doesn't care if Jack drives it all the way back or leaves it here to rot. 

"Kenny, look at me," Jack says, firmly, and there's something in his voice, something so sure and certain in a way that Jack so often wasn't, that Kent can't help but look. 

In the dim light of the parking lot, Jack looks too pale, just like he did in the hospital bed a million years ago, and Kent shivers, reaches out a hand and grabs hold of Jack's sweatshirt-clad arm. 

"I didn't know what to say to you. I didn't know how to take everything that was fucked up inside my head, and make sense of it out loud, so I didn't," Jack says. "I guess I thought, I owe you an explanation and there was no point in trying to give it when I couldn't even explain it to myself. Does that make sense?" 

"Not really," Kent says, but it does, kind of. Doesn't mean he has to like it. 

"Hey," Jack says. "Let's go upstairs, get some sleep." 

"Way past your bedtime, huh, old man?" Kent cracks, and whatever was in the air between them, it doesn't break, exactly, but it settles some. 

"Fuck off," Jack says. "And I _don't_ snore." 

"Whatever you want to tell yourself, babe," Kent says, the endearment slipping out as easy as breathing, and he stills, waits for Jack to protest, but all he does is pocket the keys, and swing open the driver's side door. 

"Come on, Kenny, you're not gonna sleep in the car, are you?" 

. 

Kent gets his own hotel room on roadies, the perks of being a captain, and he's never been more grateful for it than he is now, as he and Jack strip down to their boxer briefs, and collapse into the plush, king-size bed. 

Jack tosses his sweatshirt to the side, and Kent can't help himself, reaches out so that two fingers hover over the bruise low on Jack's neck. That's from today, from earlier tonight, but it might as well have been from another time entirely. Kent yawns, and feels his jaw crack with it. 

"Shit, I'm tired," Kent says, flopping backwards onto a pillow. He should pop some Advil, and drink some water because he's getting too old for the kind of drinking he did tonight, but right now, all of those things seem too far away. 

Jack hums. "Yeah. Semester's over for me, though. Flying home tomorrow night." 

"Yeah?" Kent says, curling into Jack's side, and throwing one leg over Jack's hip. "Say hi to your parents for me. If, uh. If that's okay." 

"It's okay," Jack says. He lays one hand over the middle of Kent's back, and reaches to flip off the light with the other. "They'll be happy to hear it." 

"Damn right," Kent whispers, voice scratchy and low, and he can feel sleep coming on, as his eyelids get heavier and heavier. "Your parents love me." 

Jack laughs, and the feel of it reverberates through them both. "No harm to your ego, eh?" 

But Jack presses a small kiss to Kent's temple, anyways, and Kent finally gives into the pull of his heavy, tired limbs.

Kent tucks in closer to the hollow of Jack's neck, lets his eyes drift shut, and falls asleep.


End file.
